by David Marcum
Chalmers collapsed into the wicker chair, gasping for breath, his face growing red. I picked up my medical bag from the table and brought out the stethoscope.
Thorpe seemed to take on the aspect of an animal suddenly caged, his eyes flashing around the room. Gregson nodded a constable to go across and pinion his arms
“Is Chalmers all right, Watson?” said Holmes.
“His breathing is a bit ragged,” I replied, “but he’ll survive.”
Gregson snorted. “Not for long, neither of them. I believe I heard what amounts to a confession of murder. Take them away.” The inspector’s two officers led the fallen pair from the room.
“You have taken Mitchelson, and his paramour, the cook?’” enquired Holmes. Gregson nodded his assent.
“The two partners were the true murderers. Mitchelson was the sad practitioner. You know where justice lies.”
Sherlock Holmes settled at the fireside, putting his fingers to his lips in pensive fashion. The three of us settled around the dining table.
“As I understand the matter, the bank of Derwent, Thorpe and Chalmers, in taking over the ailing Cromley’s bank, was to gain a huge amount of money, of which a goodly portion would be divided between the three partners - but more specifically, some to whom I spoke yesterday evening in the financial district suggested that Thornton Derwent himself was to receive the largest slice. And so Thorpe and Chalmers planned his murder, that they might split the fortune between them.”
“Yes,” I said. “But what convinced you Derwent was murdered? Everyone thought it was a natural death.”
I realised this was Holmes at his happiest, the master detective supplying apparently obscure details to an audience hanging on each word.
“It was his strange behaviour at his wife’s funeral.” He paused and arched an eyebrow
“But that was two years ago, Mr. Holmes,” protested Gregson. “What behaviour are you talking about?”
“He did not go to the funeral,” said Holmes. “When the hearse arrived at his house, he went out to speak to the undertaker. It was a bitter winter’s day, and when he returned to the warmth of the house from the cold, he fainted, fell, and broke his leg. The doctor who attended him said he had a poor circulation and was likely to faint in such circumstances. And he remained potentially prone to this weakness in the future.”
“But how could you know all of this?” I cried.
He smiled. “I had noted the angled left foot when I examined his body - the result of an impacted fracture of the neck of the femur. I think I recall mentioning that I was perplexed. After I left you yesterday, Watson, I paid a visit to the offices of the local newspaper, the Hampstead and Highgate Express, being sure they would keep a file on one of the most prominent citizens in their circulation area. They had indeed carried a detailed report of the funeral, and there I learned of the accident and its cause.”
Young Derwent stared in genuine surprise. “I had forgotten all about those details: my mind on that day was, as you would understand, entirely centred upon my mother’s death.”
“And, if nothing else, the present unhappy affair would have driven it from your mind,” replied Holmes. “But sadly the valet retained the memory of those two-year-old events. When Chalmers and Thorpe sought to draw the pathetic Mitchelson into their net - five hundred pounds is a formidable sum to one who was probably paid less than a hundred a year - he told them of this matter, thus providing a most subtle method of murder. You will know, Watson,” Holmes said, turning to me, “that a person held upright while fainting will die. This is exactly what the two scoundrels called upon the valet to do.”
“But how,” I remonstrated, “do you compel a man to faint?” This was the critical question, and the room fell silent, the son and the two bankers staring at Holmes. Gregson and his men too were clearly at a loss.
“By heat, my dear Watson: overwhelming heat. You saw the bathroom in which Derwent died. Mitchelson, who returned early to Highgate from his day off, prepares an immoderately hot bath for his master; the windows are fastened and extreme heat is built up therein before he enters. A full seventeen hours later, the towels still showed signs of damp; there were residual wet patches on the walls, and, critically, black carbon traces around the hot-water geyser. Derwent, prone to collapse, did so. As he crumpled, the servant raised him upright - not beneath the arms, else that would have shown occlusion of the arteries and veins and thus violence - but around the trunk. I apologise for not checking this vital medical detail with you, my dear Watson, but since I had already travelled to the City, I was in the vicinity of Barts and thus was able to drop in on the Regius Professor for a chat.
“Your father,” he continued, turning to Derwent, “died almost immediately, with no sign of assault on his body. Mitchelson lowered him into the bath some minutes later when the extreme heat of the water would have dissipated and thus no scalding marks would be left, and called the spurious alarm.”
A few days later I stood with Holmes and Jocelyn Derwent as Thornton Derwent was laid to rest alongside his wife in Highgate Cemetery. The service over, I nodded towards a nearby grave where a plinth was surmounted by a leonine head. “Karl Marx,” I said, “a strange neighbour by whom a staunch capitalist must spend eternity.”
My comment was rewarded with a smile from young Derwent and a look of absolute bafflement from Sherlock Holmes. His knowledge of political thought and activists remained at nil.
A Game of Illusion
by Jeremy Branton Holstein
Throughout my long association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it has been my privilege, nay duty, to record both his extraordinary methods and adventures. I have been fortunate that the public retains an appetite for my pen; yet despite lucrative offers from numerous periodicals, there have been several cases which I have withheld from publication, mostly for reasons of societal discretion or for the interest of Queen and Country. This particular case, however, stands unique amongst my unpublished manuscripts, for the person I seek to protect by leaving it in the vaults of Cox and Company is none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself.
It was early in the year of 1899, and London was again in the grip of a cold, dry winter, the likes of which made my war wound ache. The bitter chill had emptied the normally bustling cobblestone streets outside of the lodgings I shared with Sherlock Holmes, and I was grateful for the fire that Mrs. Hudson had stoked for me in our sitting room.
I had seen little of Holmes in the preceding week, but I could tell from his behavior that he was working a case. He would keep odd hours, departing Baker Street before I rose in the morning, and returning only after I had retired to bed. I could hear him at night pacing within his room, the laborious back and forth stride that I knew indicated he was anxiously awaiting some development in his investigation. When I did chance to see Holmes in person, it was for brief sojourns when he joined me by the fireside to smoke his pipe. He would sit silently for hours, gazing into the fire as he worked his way through the supply of tobacco which he kept in the toe end of a Persian slipper.
I did not ask my friend for the details of his investigation. Holmes had once told me I had the grand gift of silence, and it was a comment I had taken to heart. I knew that Holmes would reveal to me the details when he deemed the time appropriate.
Holmes was again absent that Saturday morning when I heard a carriage pull up out front of 221b, followed by a heavy tread upon the stair. When the door opened into our sitting room, the figure who stood at the stoop took me absolutely by surprise.
“Mycroft!” I cried in astonishment. Holmes’s elder brother had, to my knowledge, only visited Baker Street twice before, so to see him here in person was extraordinary. When I first met the man, I had described him as stout and corpulent, and the years had, if anything, only increased his already impressive bulk. I rose to greet him, only to be waved back.
“Please do not get up, Doctor,” said the elder Holmes. “I can see from here that your wound from the Afghan campaign is troubling you.”
I settled back, silently thanking the man. “Won’t you come in, Mycroft?” I said. “It’s been years.”
Mycroft did not move, continuing to stand within the shadows of the doorway. “Three years, two months and twenty seven days, Doctor,” he said. “I don’t suppose Sherlock is about?”
“No, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“Good,” said Mycroft, “for it is about my brother that I have come to see you.”
“About your brother?” I said.
“Indeed,” said Mycroft. “Tell me, Doctor. Has my brother’s recent behavior seemed at all odd to you?”
“No,” I said. “No stranger than usual. He seems much himself.”
“He hasn’t seemed overly preoccupied? Gone from Baker Street for long stretches at a time?”
“You know as well as I that neither of those behaviors is unusual where your brother is concerned.”
“Has he perhaps been acting paranoid? Taken precautions against unseen enemies? Complained of airguns?”
“Airguns?” Immediately I became fully alert. That word, that particular word, invoked difficult memories. “See here, Mycroft. Stop dancing about and come straight to the point. Is something wrong with your brother?”
Mycroft regarded me for a moment more, but then began to laugh. The reedy cackle that issued forth was in a different voice entirely from the man I knew as Mycroft, and it was a voice I had come to know very well indeed.
“Holmes?” I said. “Holmes, is that you?”
“Oh, forgive me, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, stepping out from the shadows of the doorway and into the light of our sitting room. “I thought my disguise adequate, but I had to be sure.” As Holmes strode forward a miraculous transformation took place; his body straightened, the compact form of Mycroft unfolding into the lanky stature of my good friend. By the time he reached the mantle, he was the man I had lived with on and off for almost two decades. Holmes filled his pipe with shag tobacco, and began to smoke as he regarded me. “I knew, Watson, that if my costume could fool a man such as yourself, a man who knows Mycroft personally, then it might fool anyone.”
“It’s an astounding likeness, I assure you, but, Holmes, why on Earth...” I trailed off, unsure of the question I was asking.
Holmes smiled at my befuddlement. “Why on Earth am I disguised as my brother? Simple, my friend. I will be impersonating Mycroft at a social gathering this very evening.”
“For what purpose?”
“To prevent a crime. Here, take a look at this.” Holmes reached into his coat, and produced a note card which he handed to me. The card was made from a heavy stock, with a hand written note printed upon the surface in a confident and ornate hand.
I do hereby announce my intention to steal the Arnsbury Emerald upon the 11th of February. The note was signed, rather brazenly in large script, Raffles.
“What do you make of it, Watson?” asked Holmes.
“An obvious forgery,” I said. “A.J. Raffles is dead.”
“Yes, lost at sea during Scotland Yard’s careless and bungled attempt to capture the so-called ‘Amateur Cracksman.’ Yet rumors persist that he survived the ocean, and is still at large.”
“So you believe the note to be genuine.”
“No, of course not. I quite agree with you that the card is nothing more than a rather blatant and amateurish piece of misdirection. Beyond the fact that A.J. Raffles is still officially dead, there is also history to consider. Raffles did not, as a rule, announce his thefts in advance, nor claim credit for his misdeeds. Delivering a brazen card announcing both his resurrection and intentions is decidedly out of character. Still, it is not beyond the realm of possibility. To that end I have spent much of this past week scouring London for some trace of the man. Both my efforts, and that of my irregulars, have come up empty.”
“But if Raffles is not our enemy, then who sent the message?”
“That, my friend, is what we must ascertain. Tell me, Watson. Do you fancy attending a party this evening?”
“A party?” I said. “With you?”
“No, of course not. Not with me, but with Mycroft Holmes. You failed to look at the other side of the card.”
I turned the card over, and saw that it was, in fact, an invitation.
Lord and Lady Hornung do hereby request the pleasure of the company of Sherlock Holmes and guest at our Gala Ball. A date and address followed, along with a reminder to be punctual and to come dressed in the very best finery.
“Lord Hornung!” I said. “I’ve heard of him, of course.”
Holmes nodded. “One of the most powerful men in England.”
“Powerful enough, I suppose, to persuade you to impersonate your own brother?”
“Just so. Prime Minster Cecil himself ordered Mycroft to ‘request’ my assistance. It is, of course, Lord and Lady Hornung who own the Arnsbury Emerald. To that end, I am to attend Lord Hornung’s ball this very evening and ensure that this so-called ‘Raffles’ does not succeed in securing his prize.”
“I could not help but notice that the invitation is made out to Sherlock Holmes, not Mycroft.”
Holmes sighed. “I’m afraid, Watson, that I am a victim of your pen. Thanks to your stories in The Strand, my name has become infamous amidst the criminal class. The presence of Sherlock Holmes at a gala would immediately arouse the suspicion of even the most casual of criminals, yet Mycroft Holmes can still move invisibly amidst even the higher echelons of society. So what do you say, Watson? Can I count on your assistance?”
“Of course, Holmes,” I said. “I’m your man.”
Holmes smiled. “Good fellow,” he said. “Now gather your best dinner finery. I have summoned a cab for just past six, and we must not be late for the ball.”
Our driver was prompt, and, with Holmes still in his Mycroft disguise, we climbed aboard the trap of his carriage. With the crack of a whip, we began to fly through the streets of London, rattling over the cobblestones, en route to the Hornung gala.
I have never been entirely comfortable with luxury or its revels; neither my military or medical careers have been lucrative. Indeed, it is only through my career as Sherlock Holmes’s companion and biographer that I have come into close quarters with the higher class of society, yet even those experiences did not prepare me for the sheer opulence of the Hornung estate. Ensconced by a barrier of stone walls, iron gates, and greenery, the Hornung’s mansion was a perfect example of the very best British engineering: ornate, yet sturdy and practical. The enormous windows seemed to blaze in the night, casting a dazzling illumination upon the surrounding grounds.
“Holmes,” I said, “is the building on fire?”
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Lord Hornung is a supporter of the Electric Lighting Act currently in Parliament. As a result, he has equipped his home with modern lights that run on electricity rather than gas. As you can see, they tend to burn quite a bit brighter than the gaslamps we are used to.”
“To be sure,” I said, wondering to myself, as a medical man, if such illumination might be bad for the eyes.
As our cab rattled around the corner of the main gate, the west wing of the building came into view, and I was surprised to note that it was under active construction or repair. Even as guests filed inside through the main door of the front, workmen were continuing their labors on the scaffolding surrounding the exterior of the back. Gazing out the cab window as we passed, I happened to catch the eye of one of the laborers. We regarded each other strangely, and I felt a distant sense of recognition. I knew I had seen this face somewhere before.
I was about to point the gentleman out to Holmes, when he placed his hand upon my s
houlder. “Turn away Watson,” he said softly. “Slowly, now.”
I did as Holmes instructed, but felt puzzled. “Holmes, that worker. His features seemed familiar.”
“As they should. It has been many years since we last saw that face, but if he is who I believe him to be, then his presence here on the grounds might explain a great many things.”
“I’m afraid my memory fails me. Who is he?”
“Later, Watson. We’ve arrived.”
Our carriage pulled up next to the marble stairs. The door to our compartment was opened by an unexpected face.
“Dr. Watson!” said Inspector Lestrade. He extended a hand, and helped me out of the carriage. “Surprised to see you here.”
“And you, Lestrade,” I said. “What brings you to the Hornung Mansion?”
“Yard business, Doctor,” said Lestrade. “Here by his Lordship’s invitation. I’ve got twenty men patrolling these grounds, as there’s been an apparent threat to a piece of Lord Hornung’s property. But I suspect you already know that.”
“Know what, Inspector?” said Holmes, climbing out of the carriage.
“Mr. Holmes!” said Lestrade. “Why, I haven’t seen you since that Cadogan West business! Whatever brings you here from the Diogenes?”
“The same thing as you, no doubt,” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson and I are here at the Prime Minister’s instruction.”
“Ah!” said Lestrade. “I see.”
“You seem surprised, Inspector,” said Holmes.
“Well, begging your pardon, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, “but I would have thought his Excellency would have sent your brother.”
Holmes smiled at this. “That is precisely the point. Now tell me. Where have you positioned your men?”